April 17, Poem 17 - ars poetica: parable of carpentry

ars poetica: parable of carpentry

everything obeys the sun now

the body blooded to dark

in its command. every question

answers itself in the choices –

both those made and those

eschewed. the sun itself

is a question – or maybe

an indictment. I once lay

in the sun for the express

purpose of getting a tan.

I was upset that I had lost

so much gleam in my moving

North. I got darker. I stayed

just as black. sometimes

the sun answers by saying

nothing. sometimes you learn

only by dogged pursuit

of failure. every story

I can pull from the last

twenty years is allegorical.

in each of them, the sun,

my body, my black, my fists,

my tongue. in many of them

I am laughing. in all of them

I am a messiah of a set

of beliefs I am still

building. in fact

I am apprenticed

to a joiner. if I can

find all the ways

corners can be molded

into themselves, can become

parts of larger functions

I will have discovered

the world.

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